Tainted Love
by Mell-O-Drama
Summary: 1980: only a small resistance fights for freedom against Voldemort's reign of terror. The Order of the Phoenix is knowingly fighting a losing battle. In desperate times, there is no black or white, and the lines are blurred as friends become traitors.


**Tainted Love**

M. J. Magee

Hardly noticing it, Sirius tapped his short-bitten nails irritably against the surface of the desk. He wasn't intending to create any real tune at all, it was simply noise, noise to fill up the suffocating silence. He lay sprawled across his chair like a lazy cat, with feet hanging down one arm and his head pillowed against the other. The padding was soft and comfortable, yet he felt somehow tense. He couldn't relax -- it didn't feel right, somehow, to relax. He had to keep moving. Had to keep working out the tension. Absentmindedly, he began to swing his legs in time with the beats of his fingers. Just to keep moving. Just to keep busy. Just to battle the silence.

Somewhere behind him, at the other side of the room, James sighed. Sirius moved to tap his fingers again but, catching himself, smoothed his fist into a flat palm and used it to push himself up in his chair. He turned to look at James, who was very still in his chair, but slumping forwards, almost bent-double, and craddling his head in the palms of his hands. If it weren't for the overwhelming silence, Sirius would have thought he was crying. Feeling Sirius's intense gaze on him, James pulled his head up to face him. Their eyes met. Sirius noted the dull, lifeless expression on James's face -- an expression he had been wearing a lot recently. The sparkle, the promise of mischief and mayhem, had extinguished long ago. Now his eyes seemed blank, empty. He said nothing, simply looking to Sirius with a gaze that was almost pleading, begging for answers. He looked away again.

'It's Remus,' Sirius said lowly. His voice seemed much firmer, much angrier, after so long in silence.

'No,' James answered, his own voice barely a whisper. His eyes were fixed darkly on the floor, yet seemed to stare right through it. 'It can't be.'

'It has to be, Prongs!' he hissed sharply, 'Who else could it be?'

He couldn't answer.

'James,' Sirius said, softer now. He very rarely used his friend's real name, only in very serious situations which, until recently, they had seldom encountered. Life, somehow, had seemed so easy before. Just laughing, and flirting, and playing tricks on Snape. Things had changed so suddenly, too suddenly, after they left school. They were so excited, so full of righteous moral bravery. They were going to make a difference, they were going to fight for freedom, they were going to save the world. It had been a dream, a game. Something they stayed up late at night talking about, little boys wanting to play war, wanting to fight evil. Somehow, Sirius had never really thought it would happen. He had i wanted /i it, of course he had! He had wanted to help, to stop feeling useless in the war that was all around him. But he had school, and girls and playing tricks in the corridor, and their future, their battle, had seemed far away. Something to talk about, something to dream about, some distant desire. Not close, not -- _real._ But it was here -- it was here, and now, and it was affecting them more than they ever imagined.

'James,' he said again, 'don't you see? There's no one else.'

'It could be anybody else!' James cried suddenly, bolting upright in his chair in such a sudden and forceful gesture that Sirius, startled, winced. His voice was loud, and harsh and hurt, somehow, as it carried so abbraisively across the room. 'It could be anybody! It could be you or me, or any one of them! It could be Dumbledore himself for all we know! But it couldn't be Remus.' His voice slowed into a choked whisper. 'It couldn't be. Moony.'

The room once again fell still as both looked away, unable to meet each other's eyes. Sirius shook his head. 'He's a werewolf, James,' he murmered quietly. There was no need to shout now. They both knew it would make no difference. There was a long pause before James answered weakly, as if trying to convince himself of his own argument, 'That has nothing to do with it.'

'It has_ everything _to do with it,' Sirius spat back. His own voice sounded strange to him as he spoke, angrier than he had intended, than he felt. Somehow, he didn't feel angry. He didn't feel anything. Rather, as he began to explain to James all of the arguments and reasoning he had run through his head over and over the past few weeks, frantically, obsessively searching for holes, mistakes, misuderstandings -- hoping, desperately hoping to find one, praying to find a single simple argument that would destroy all of the evidence, that would make it all disappear -- he was aware of a vague sense of nothingness. He no longer felt hurt, or angry, or anything. He simply felt tired. Very tired, and nothing more.

'He's a werewolf, James, and you know as well as I do the prejudices the Ministry has against werewolves. They weren't even going to let him into _Hogwarts_, for God's sake, before Dumbledore jumped in.'

James stubbornly stared at something beyond the table.

'The Register, the code of conduct,' Sirius continued, passionless, 'it's impossible for him to find a job now, with all the laws surrounding werewolves, and since his parents-'

'What's the point of all this?' James asked sharply.

'The point _is_, Voldemort is offering werewolves and their bleedin' grannies everything they want. He's promising people power, he's promising equality for dar-- for all creatures after he takes over-'

'Yeah, and it's a load of shite!' James cried, and there was a throb of emotion in his voice, as if he were choking the emotion back. 'Voldemort won't -- he'll never... If he ever manages to come to power, he's never going to share it! Do you think he has the _slightest intention_ of keeping _any _of his promises? He's never going to reward his own _Death Eaters_ with anything but the finger and an Unforgiveable when he gets what he wants, never mind the fucking werewolves!'

'James, _I know_,' Sirius sighed, rubbing at his aching temples. 'I _know_, but not everybody does. From where Remus is standing, Voldemort is offering him an awful lot of freedom that our side isn't willing to give. It's hard for him like this, and when someone else is offering a better... a better way of life-'

'It's not a better way, it's _not_. And he _knows _it. Remus isn't that stupid -- he was the smartest wizard in our year, the smartest I fucking know! He can see through the -- the propaganda, the _lies_ and the promises! He can.'

Sirius knew his friend. Sirius knew him better than he knew himself. And when James gave a sob of emotion, his body shaking with the struggle of keeping the rest in, Sirius knew that James hardly believed his own words. Even though he was trying to. 'He can.'

Sirius chose his next words carefully. 'It can be hard -- things are grey, James, it's not all black and white, good guys and bad guys. When our side is -- as biased -- against certain people... And the other side -- no matter who they are or what they're doing -- when they're vowing all this stuff, this better way that ours' can't -- won't -- offer... It's tempting... It's hard to see past yourself, hard to keep the greater stuff in mind. Voldemort's giving him the chance of a _life_, James, a real life. He can't turn that down. Not at any cost.'

'He's our friend,' James whispered weakly, a final protest.

'What can we give him? What can we give him but -- persecution, oppression! Werewolves can't get work, homes, jobs -- wives! Werewolves can't get shit with the Ministry hounding them down! And Voldemort's dishing out promises of power. Equality, acceptance. What people like Remus can't even _dream_ about under this government.'

James, with another sob, nodded.

'I don't want to believe it either, Prongs,' Sirius whispered, folding his arms tightly across his chest. He had made his argument and won, yet it was an empty, meaningless victory. He had hoped to lose. And now, saying the words aloud had made them solid, more -- real -- somehow. The words, their consequences, could no longer be denied, ignored. Sirius felt tears stinging at his eyes, begging for release, and yet felt no desire to cry.

They said nothing more. There was nothing more to say.

**Disclaimer**: I, quite obviously, don't own anything. Not even a parakeet.


End file.
